An eclogue for Christmas

A poetic dialogue between two country dwellers appropriate to the season

‘Christmas Eve, come twelve of the clock and the missus will be on her knees,’

Said Farmer Brown as he stood taking stock of his freshly-made Wensleydale cheese.

‘I know what you mean,’ said his friend, Farmer Green. ‘My missus finds Christmas a bind.

What with looking for presents and cooking the pheasants and various things of the kind.’

They pictured their weak, weary women at home while they sipped at their cider and sighed.

‘Best leave ‘em alone to get on on their own, ‘tis a method well-tested and tried.’

‘Too true,’ came the answer, ‘they get much more done when the menfolk aren’t under their feet.

No doubt they’re all right. Let’s drink to tonight! This cider goes down a fair treat.’

So fair were their fancies as midnight approached and the alcohol rendered its cheer.

‘Best night of the year don’t you think?’ said the one. Said the other, ‘Yes, best of the year.

The stars look so bright, and look, what a sight! Could those be two angels I see?’

‘Not angels, old mate. They’re our wives, and we’re late, and they don’t look too happy to me.’

In the lonely barton, by yonder combe, a pre-Christmas rumpus took place

And the two drunken sots were marched home to their lots in a state of despair and disgrace.

‘Tis Christmas Eve and twelve of the clock, and the women are at their ease.

As the chimes die away on this new Christmas Day, it’s the men who are down on their knees.